


The Right Night

by Lonraliadon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:23:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lonraliadon/pseuds/Lonraliadon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man he loved is dead. The man who killed him will be equally dead. Tonight is the night Sherlock Holmes will murder his only brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

All was quiet. Not a sound to be heard, no footsteps, no snores from lazy security personnel sleeping nearby. Nothing. Just as planned. No, he corrected himself. Don't let a false sense of security trick you.

Plans can fall through, he wasn't about to have a lesson in learning from his mistakes tonight, not tonight with everything being so crucial. One wrong move, one cocky move, and all he'd been working for could be gone. He'd move silently, stay in the shadows, constantly be on the lookout.

In the night, all light extinguished, not even the light of the moon tonight, he couldn't be seen. He'd never been one for astronomy but he'd made sure there was no moon tonight, no moon equalled less light. It equalled more dark and darkness was his friend. His only friend after what they'd done to him and here he was tonight; finally getting his revenge. Correcting the mistake his brother made. The mistake of harming someone he loved.

He moved through the grounds carefully. Stopping and listening for any distant or faint sounds of life but luck was on his side. He was wrong, darkness wasn't his only friend. Tonight he had more comrades than he'd ever had before. It proved his point. Tonight was his night. Tonight was the right night. Tonight was the night he killed his older brother.

But it was wrong. Normally his comrade ran at his side, panting with excitement. He was alone. For the first time in so long and for the first time he cared. Now wasn't the time for thinking about him. It would only distract him from his mission.

It hadn't been easy breaking into the Holmes estate where his older brother still lived, even at his age. And his weight, Sherlock mentally added with contempt. He'd planned for all scenarios in his head. If he were caught, why he just needed his big brother. If he wasn't, why he hadn't been near the estate in years. How could he possibly be connected to the bloody and violent demise of Mycroft Holmes? And, oh, how he missed his brother and would wreak havoc on who did such a monstrous deed, etcetera, etcetera.

Sherlock found his way comfortably – and, more importantly, unnoticed – to his old bedroom window. In an estate this size, it was a wonder he managed to sneak out easily in his youth. But no, it wasn't a wonder, that's something John would have marvelled at. How cunning Sherlock was even then. John.

Sherlock needed to think about him. His name at least. Every thought of his name cemented his plans into his mind more and more. Tonight, Mycroft would be held responsible. First, he would lose the fingers that typed the command. Second, the mouth that gave the order. Third, the eyes that dared to look upon someone such as John. And twenty-seventh, the heart, the heart of the man that destroyed Sherlock's.

He was in the house now. He'd climbed effortlessly through his childhood bedroom window and down the hallway that lead the way to his older brothers room. No cameras, no bugging devices. How wonderful that Mummy never liked such things in her house. And how wonderfully pathetic that Mycroft slept in his childhood bedroom.

Sherlock paused at the door, this was it. Blood and agony danced before his eyes. A mere door opening between him and his retribution for his John. He paused. No mistakes. Listen, hear, know what you must. No mistakes. Inside, the snores of his older brother were very apparent. If the household could sleep through Mycroft's sinus problems, they could sleep through his death.

He braced himself, prepared for what was to come and opened the door.

No. Wrong. Stupid. Mistake. Darkness was his friend. Illumination against him, against John, and the bedroom light switched on. Revealing the tall, dark killer in the unnatural light come to commit deeds of what many would call an unspeakable nature against a man who sat in a chair, wide-awake. Mycroft wasn't asleep, not even in his bed. Stupid. Think.

"Come in, Sherlock," Mycroft met his eyes.

It wasn't an invitation and they both knew it. The door slamming behind Sherlock only stated the obvious.

"I wish I could ask you to have a seat but I have the only one in the room." Mycroft smiled. "I could have another brought in for you but I'm afraid it would ruin the furniture composition of the room, you understand."

"Of course," stated Sherlock evenly, as if he hadn't come here to do what they both knew he had.

"Dreadful business, what happened to your flatmate, most unfortunate. I was sorry to hear about John."

"Don't say his name. Not you."

Mycroft continued, ignoring the interruption. "I was more sorry, however, to hear that you think I responsible."

"I don't think you responsible at all." Mycroft's mouth formed a little oh? as Sherlock spoke. "I don't think, I know you are responsible."

"And you never get your facts wrong?"

Sherlock moved a few short steps forward to tower over his brother sitting comfortably in his chair, eyes dangerous and full of ice, steel and murder. "Don't be stupid, Mycroft. I've already told you, it, alike your suit choices, doesn't flatter you. I know of the order you gave. I know of your commands. I even know whom you had carry it out."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow slightly, "Yes, and I know of how you've already done to my subordinate what you intend to do to me. Don't worry, I hid his file away, of course. It can't be traced back to you."

"Thank you," Sherlock sneered.

"No trouble, dear brother."

The door was locked, Sherlock knew full well. Stupid. How hadn't he noticed Mycroft's personnel in the house? How hadn't he noticed the notable absence of Mummy? Mistake. Stupid. It was guarded and not it was locked. He wouldn't be able to get out of here. Neither would Mycroft if Sherlock had a say in it. Which he would ensure he did.

"Oh, yes," Mycroft read his train of thought, "you're quite right. You won't be able to get out of here if I don't allow it."

"Well, it seems we have something in common," Sherlock said, reaching his hand inside the pocket of his long coat.

"Oh, always the flare for the dramatic. You won't be needing that knife. Particularly that knife."

Sherlock's hand gripped the handle.

"Perhaps I could tell you the story of how that knife came to be entrenched in your lovers' chest before you take some form of poetic justice out on me?"


	2. Chapter 2

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “Eat the toast.”

“Give me a moment,” Sherlock responded absently, hands making quick work switching a glass slide under his microscope with another in the long row of slides.

“I’ve given you a moment. I’ve read the paper and showered in the time it’s been sitting there. Look, it’s gone cold.”

Sherlock looked between the toast sitting untouched on a plate to the side and John, with his hair slightly damp and wearing only a robe. 

John sighed loudly, he was annoyed again. Sherlock picked up the cold toast and took a bite. Terrible. Utterly terrible. 

When John turned around his eyes went wide. “You can’t eat it now! It’s cold.”

“You told me to eat,” Sherlock protested as John snatched the food out of his hand. 

“I’ll make you some fresh toast. You’ll eat that,” John’s tone left nothing to be questioned. 

Sherlock smiled as John busied himself with huffing at the toaster. How novel that a person as good as John could be so good towards someone like Sherlock himself. It made no sense sometimes. Sherlock wasn’t a great man, he was barely a good man. He knew that of himself but to have the companionship of someone like John, well it was unexplainable to Sherlock. Sherlock enjoyed having John around in ways which he couldn’t figure out, he liked John being with him. Even if when the good doctor made Sherlock be so detestably human and insisted he eat toast. 

As Sherlock’s luck would have it – and much to John’s disapproval –, the second batch of toast went untouched as well. It wasn’t eight in the morning yet and John had been lucky to pull on a pair of jeans and a jumper before Sherlock was out the door and to the newest crime scene à la a call from Lestrade. 

While frantically running about between three bodies Sherlock noticed something completely unrelated to the subject at hand; John stifling yawns behind his hand. Johns left hand, which he kept clenching and unclenching at his side when he wasn’t raised in front of his mouth covering his yawning. 

Little sleep and shoulder pain, most probable cause was nightmares. Not for the first time, Sherlock felt concerned and a little guilty that he’d brought John along when the man belonged at home, in his chair, either napping or drinking tea and stretching his damaged shoulder. 

It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had noticed his concern for John Watson even with more interesting things at hand. It was becoming quite normal if he were honest with himself. Sherlock tried to give John what he thought was a comforting, we’ll-be-home-soon smile between deductions. John smiled in return. Anderson grimaced in either fear or confusion. A woman had killed three men, one her pimp, the other a pimp who wanted her for his services and the third just a wrong John with a prostitute in need of quick money at any cost. Sherlock gave Lestrade the address of where the killer was with a reminder to give him interesting cases and nothing that Anderson himself could have solved at seven years old – And, no, Anderson, that wasn’t a compliment – before taking the right John home. 

John plopped down into his chair as soon as they got back to Baker Street. He unconsciously rotated his shoulder before looking over to the kitchen. Tea. John wanted tea.

“I’ll get it,” Sherlock started towards the kitchen.

“You’ll get it? Uh, right. Yeah, thanks.”

Sherlock paused and looked at the confused face of John. “You don’t think I can get tea?”

“No, it’s just, you never get tea but, thanks. No sugar.”

“I know how you take your tea, John,” Sherlock breezed into the kitchen. 

From the living room, he heard John’s comment about being impossibly smug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the chapter. Also hope you tell me what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

"Where's the tea?" John asked when Sherlock came back in.

Sherlock ignored the question and snatched his violin from next to Johns' chair. John may have not known who the composer was, or what year he was born in, or died, or, hell, ate an apple like Sherlock did but he recognised the tune. It was the tune he had come to mentally call, 'The Arrival of Mycroft'.

As if on cue, Mycroft Holmes opened the door to their flat with a little 'Hello? Anybody home?' He knew damn well anybody was home. Mycroft probably knew what John had eaten for lunch in the previous week. Hell, he probably knew everything about Johns week from when John woke up in the morning to when he went to bed at night. And how long he slept, and showered, and went to the toilet and thought about Sherlock. Not that the last was much of a mystery. All the time, John sighed at himself.

"Sherlock," he greeted his brother but got no response.

John was lost in the thought of Sherlock, always in the thought of his flatmate. When was the last time Sherlock ate? When was the last time Sherlock slept? When was the last time Sherlock smiled? Laughed? Make it happen more, he'd tell himself when he couldn't remember. What was with that damn smiling this morning at the crime scene? The smiling that made John feel like a teenage girl. Completely damn ridiculous. What could he do to see it more?

Mycroft turned his attention to John and smiled almost knowingly. Bastard.

"And how are you, Doctor Watson?"

Curse that bloody knowing smile of his, John thought but instead he responded with, "Yeah, well, thanks. Want some tea, Mycroft?"

Mycroft responded with a smile and slight head tilt and a posh please. His shoulder was killing him and moving hurt but anything to get out of the room when the Holmes' were talking. God, there's so much he'd rather than that. Death, take me now, he thought as he went to make the tea.

John took his time in the kitchen. He refused to make out words but he heard the tone. Annoyed, to childish, to angry, to smug, to angry again, and to top it off sarcastic. John didn't hear what Mycroft was saying, his attention always just on Sherlock. When he came back in with a cup for Mycroft and one for himself, he was trying to carry one for Sherlock too. It wasn't very affective but Sherlock should have something in his body. Even if it was just tea. Even if it was just tea with lots of milk that had been heated up to avoid making it too cold to drink but lots of milk for calcium and lots of sugar for, well, sugar. Sherlock liked it unreasonably sweet and the extra sugary energy couldn't hurt.

Mycroft smugly accepted his cup – how do they make everything smug? – and Sherlock pouted at Mycroft as he took his.

"You're welcome," John informed Sherlock sarcastically. Sherlock looked away from John and sipped the tea with a mumbled thanks.

Why did everything Sherlock do rise hundreds of questions in John's chest? Does he like the tea? Does he like that I made him tea? He said thanks, does he actually mean that? Why does he mean that? Why does even one mumbled word from Sherlock's lips make John fight off the reddening from his cheeks? Why is John thinking about Sherlock's lips? Why do they have to be so beautiful? Why do Sherlock's lips –

No, stop. Just stop it. No.

Mycroft cleared his throat and John put on his best neutral face. "So, Mycroft, what brings you here this time?"

"Ah," Mycroft turned happily to John. "Just needed a word with my brother. Hopefully the word will get in."

"Oh, that'll be the day," John took a sip from his tea and sat down again. Sherlock looked over at him as if he just told Mycroft that he saw Sherlock kissing someone behind the science bloke in high school. Why did John imagine himself as the one being kissed in that scenario?

Mycroft looked at Sherlock before simply saying, "Good day, Doctor Watson," and leaving.

"Never stays long does he?" John asked, trying to sound conversational.

"No," Sherlock drawled and sipped his tea. "Why did you heat the milk up?"

He pulled a face and John coughed out an attempt at changing the conversation. "So what did you two talk about?"


	4. Chapter 4

"Why are you here, Mycroft?" was the first thing out of Sherlock's mouth. "Not enough on the agenda today that you had some free time, or did the Queen simply run out of cupcakes?"

Mycroft sighed and leant on his umbrella. "Let's not exchange pleasantries, shall we? Never really was your strong point. Nor subtlety, perhaps I should borrow that trait of yours momentarily, tell me, how is it living with someone completely in love with you?"

Sherlock swiped his violin bow through the air at Mycroft threateningly, if possible. "Just because you're unsuccessful with starting a war with parts of Europe today doesn't mean you can start one in this flat."

"Start a war in this flat? I don't know what you mean. It seems Doctor Watson has been rubbing off on you."

"So what if he has?"

"Well, congratulations then! Mummy will be most happy. I think she'd prefer not to hear about the rubbing part but the relation-"

"Stop that!"

"Stop what?"

"Don't play stupid, Mycroft. It, alike your suit choices, doesn't flatter you. They're a bit tight around the middle."

"Well, it seems I have gotten my facts wrong –,"

" – As usual –"

"Perhaps you aren't in a relationship yet."

"Period."

"I trust that soon enough that will change."

Sherlock sat down in his chair with a flourish, violin gripped closely to his chest. He turned his eyes away to study a certain yellow spray painted face on the wall. He looked for all the world as if he'd forgotten his older brother stood in front of him.

"It's plain to see that he wants that to change."

Sherlock sighed and spun out of his chair and further away from Mycroft to look out the window, the main purpose was to ignore his brother but more accurately so Mycroft wouldn't see his face when he said, "Wrong. John is straight. Even your brain can understand that, Mycroft."

"Straight?" Mycroft tutted and pulled a small book from his pocket. "Hmm, that is contradictory to my file. Says plainly here that John Watson dated and lived with a Austin Stone while in University. My, my, for two whole years."

Sherlock faced his brother. He'd come to know that nothing from that little book was ever incorrect but it couldn't be. And Sherlock really shouldn't be happy by the prospect. "There is a vast gap between experimenting in your youth and being in love with a colleague."

"If you stopped observing him for a moment and just saw him, maybe you'd actually see. Just a thought. Here's another thought, people like being taken out to dinner."

"There's no possibility that John – It's ridiculous."

"Ridiculous, really? If it's so impossible, how about a little wager?"

Sherlock's eyes glinted. John was the gambling man but if Mycroft proposed something as such, well … interesting. "What kind of wager?"

"John Watson is about to walk in here with three cups of tea. One for you, even though you didn't ask for one and he didn't offer."

"Dull," said Sherlock, retaking his position in his chair. "John always makes tea."

"Yes, he does. One of the little things that people do when they care for someone. Small little things here and there, bigger things occasionally. Like saving your life. I have it by good authority that Doctor Watson has done that various times. I have it on better authority that Doctor Watson does these things for a reason."

"What's it to you anyway?"

"I already said," Mycroft twirled his umbrella, "Mummy would be pleased. So shall we wager? If Doctor Watson returns with three cups, I'm right and you consider what I've said. Remember, people like being taken out to dinner. Two and I'll leave you in peace."

Sherlock huffed, trying to hide his interest in something so dull. "That is childish, Mycroft."

"I'm dealing with a child."

At that, John Watson entered the room, blundering with three teacups, precariously balanced in his hands. It was a silly wager. Just a joke, sort of, but Sherlock couldn't help the strange feeling in his stomach when John handed him a cup. And he couldn't help not being about to meet John Watson's eyes as he said thank you. He might entertain the idea. People do like being taken out to dinner.


	5. Chapter 5

"Why are you so nervous?"

"Nervous? I'm not nervous."

"No," John looked at his flatmate. Sherlock hadn't sat still since Mycroft left this morning. He'd paced the whole day and snapped each and every time John had attempted to ask him what Mycroft had wanted. "You're the picture of calm."

Sherlock paused in his pacing to shoot a glare at John.

John looked at the time. Eight at night. Exactly twelve hours ago, he'd almost gotten Sherlock to eat. Speaking of food –

"Dinner? I'm hungry, you hungry? I could eat," rambled John, standing up from his chair.

Sherlock stopped more suddenly that it looked like he'd turned to stone. He'd froze still pacing, one foot on the way to ground interrupted so it hovered in the air mid step. John quirked his head at his flatmate. His brilliant, beautiful and bizarre flatmate. Sherlock spun to face him more suddenly then his freezing, if possible. He was in front of John's face staring intensely and piercingly into his eyes. It was more than a little unnerving.

"Dinner? Yes."

"I, uh, right, yes. Take away or do you wanna –?"

Sherlock's eyes were so close to him. They could be sharing the same breath with Sherlock this close if John could breathe. His tongue darted out and wet his suddenly dry lips. Lips. It took every ounce of training not to switch his glance from Sherlock's eyes to his lips. And he couldn't, Sherlock would notice. He always notices.

"Go out? Yes, that is what people do in these situations."

"What situation?" John tried to sound calm.

Sherlock looked at John in that way that said is-it-even-possible-to-be-that-stupid? and turned away. He was already pulling his scarf around his neck in the way that made John mentally question how Sherlock was able to be so agile with his height and lanky limbs before John snapped back to himself and put on his own jacket. Going out it was then.

Sherlock walked fast with his long legs but tonight the height difference was downright unfair. John had to practically jog to keep up with his flatmate. There were moments as Sherlock led him with determination down streets in London, that John almost lost him. He was panting when Sherlock stepped into a restaurant.

Questions and thoughts and scenarios ran through his mind as John ran to keep up with him. Dinner, yes. Mycroft said people like dinner and the day spent in the flat had helped prove Mycroft's theory. Sherlock couldn't be sure of how John felt but the way John's eyes flickered up every minute to watch Sherlock… Why hadn't he seen it before?

"This – this is new," John observed as Sherlock directed him towards the window table of a Moroccan restaurant.

And yes. Yes it was. How had Sherlock not noticed it before? How could he have been so stupid? So ignorant? So oblivious?

"Yes, well, we can't exactly go to the places we've already been tonight," said Sherlock trying a smile in John's direction.

It didn't have the effect he wanted. John scrunched his small face up but his eyes grew wide. The result was quite cute – did Sherlock use words like cute? Had he ever used cute? Where had he heard the word cute before? And, oh no, he is started to sound like Molly Hooper.

"Oh, God," John looked terrified. "Why can't we go back to the normal places? What have you done?"

"Done? Nothing. You're making no sense, John. Order."

And if his gaze was more intense than he wanted it, it worked on John because the good doctor went about studying the menu and not asking silly, confusing question and mumbling about not knowing what to get and how he'd never had Moroccan before. Sherlock was confused enough without questions.

"It's a Moroccan soup. Mainly eaten during Ramadan. It is also served to friends and family after a special celebration, the morning after a wedding for example."

John looked up and said oh as if he didn't know he just asked Sherlock what harira was. Or maybe he was doing that mumbling to yourself thing that John and other regular people did sometimes.

"You can order it, John. We don't have to get married for you to enjoy it."

Sherlock thought it was a good start to a date. John was confused as hell and missing his shows.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in present time, Sherlock does what he does best; not listen. It doesn't sit well with Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I am making this too choppy. Please tell me what you think.

_Sherlock's hand gripped the handle._

_"Perhaps I could tell you the story of how that knife came to be entrenched in your lovers' chest before you take some form of poetic justice out on me?"_

 

"No," Sherlock stated simply. 

"No?" Mycroft frowned. "You need to hear it, Sherlock."

"I'd prefer just to kill you now and have it over with."

"Have it over with?" Mycroft looked incredulously at his younger brother. "Your demeanor tells me you don't really want to _have it over with_. You want to draw out my death."

"That may be the case but I've no need to hear your altered series of events. I'd prefer to spend the time flaying your skin off."

Sherlock knew why he was here. He knew what he wanted to and needed to about the death of his lover. He didn't need any useless and most probably false information clogging his mind. He didn't particularly want to hear anything about John. John was dead. Sherlock had spent weeks preparing for this night. Careful planning since the night Mycroft's henchmen had broken into 221B and destroyed Sherlock's bed sheets with the blood that had pumped through his partners veins. 

Mycroft sighed and rubbed at his forehead. "I was afraid that you might be like this. You wouldn't even like to know what possessed me to do such a thing?"

"Why would I want to know how your mind works? I'm not convinced that it works at all."

"I understand that petty comments are some peoples way of dealing with anger but I was hoping you were above that. You honestly don't care to know?"

Damn. Mycroft knew how he thought. Sherlock cursed him. "Tell me," Sherlock ordered him. 

Mycroft smiled slightly. "Thought you'd want to know. Also thought you'd have wondered by now why on Earth I would want John dead after I was practically the reason behind your ... shall we say union."

"You had no hand in any form of union."

"Come now, Sherlock. You were oblivious to the good doctors feelings before I intervened. John thanked me for that you know. He figured it out, yet you remain so ignorant."

"John _thanked_ you? When?" And then he realised. "Ah, of course." Sherlock chuckled at that and even to his own ears it sounded manic. "Of course. I should have known back then. That wasn't his sister."

"No."

" _Brother Dear_ ," Sherlock cooed, " _please_ tell me your account of what happened."


	7. Chapter 7

"So," John tried to start a conversation when their meals arrived. The food had taken exactly long enough for John to sort his brain out and get oxygen back into his lungs. Sherlock said, 'we don't have to get married'. "Moroccan, huh?" He'd actually said ' _we_ don't have to get _married_ '.

John sounded awkward and he bloody well knew it. He just hoped Sherlock didn't but what were the chances of the great Sherlock Holmes not knowing something?

"Felt like a change did we?"

"How do you find it?" Sherlock eyes met his, gaze intense as usual.

"Uh, the food? It's good, interesting."

"Not the food, John. This. You used the pronoun we. _Felt like a change did we?_. I've heard that is something couples do, so surely it is a good indication on how our date it going. I didn't think couples said it so soon but, as I said, good indication. Try the couscous."

John stared at his flatmate, mouth wide open. "Date? Sherlock, did you just say date?"

Again that is-it-possible-to-be-this-stupid look. "Yes, John. Do try to keep up. Couscous," Sherlock shovelled food from plate onto his fork and held it out across the table for John to eat. When John just started at his flatmate, Sherlock said, "eat the food, John. I've also heard that couples regularly test each other's food in public. In fact, I've seen it myself. Unhygienic."

"Sherlock, this is a -," John couldn't swallow past the lump in his throat. Something had to be going on. Something for a case, or an experiment – Experiment! That was it. It had to be something Sherlock was testing. Well, he didn't have to test it on him, John thought with contempt. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared hard at his flatmate and his extended hand offering food. "How many times have I told you that experimenting on me is forbidden."

"I presume you don't want an actual answer." Sherlock nodded towards the fork in front of John. "Please, do try it."

"This isn't an experiment?"

Sherlock lowered the fork finally. "No, John. This is a date."

"Right, well, are you using again? If that what this is?"

"You ask a lot of questions instead of just accepting the fact that this is me taking you out to dinner with a romantic interest."

"Wha- Sherlock, what romantic interest? No, I mean, no. What?"

John watched as Sherlock's face seemed to fall and his eyes widen ever so slightly. John had lived with Sherlock long enough to notice that slight facial shift. "No?" Sherlock grabbed his coat and stood up. "John, forgive me." Sherlock turned and left a confused John at the table. As he turned, John caught the mumbled words, "Mycroft was wrong."

He breezed out of the restaurant. As John went to follow him, he found out that Sherlock left without paying the bill. John grumbled, Moroccan was expensive apparently. When he got into the now busy street outside, Sherlock was, of course, nowhere to be seen. John, confused, started back for Baker Street.

He'd fucked up. He wanted Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock to say the word date again and feel the way his stomach flipped again. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he had a great night and kiss him softly. And then kiss him not so softly. There had to be some mistake, Sherlock would never so out of the blue take John out on a date. Take John on a date, period. Had Sherlock noticed John's feelings for his flatmate? Undoubtedly. This was just Sherlock's way of not having to find a new flatmate. John chewed his lip in the cold of the night, he wasn't far from Baker Street now. He'd go inside and tell Sherlock, 'Sherlock, it's fine. It's all fine. I can ignore it, get over it. You won't have more rent to pay if that's what you're worried about'. He replayed that in his mind. And he believed he really could ignore it. He was a soldier, he'd dealt with worse.

When he got back to the flat and it was dark and empty, John deflated a little bit. Damn. Great. Perfect. Now he'd scared of his best friend. He turned the lights on and slumped down in his chair, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He typed a short message, _Where are you?_ and hit send to Sherlock.

No reply.

_I'm sorry, we should talk about this. Come home._

No reply.

_Please, Sherlock. Waiting here._

No reply.

John had been waiting nearly an hour. If Sherlock were going to reply, he'd have done it by now. A walk. A walk is what he needed right now. Clear his head in the cold wind of outside. Before he left the flat, he took off his jacket and placed it on a hook. Better to think with. Cold.

The temperature drop from going from the flat to outside was soothing. It marvelled John that the flat he and Sherlock shared always seemed to warm even when the fire wasn't lit or the heating wasn't working. John walked aimlessly around. It helped. It made him think clearly.

He didn't know what he was thinking clearly about though. If he could ever understand the thoughts of Sherlock Holmes… well that would be the day.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and John realized, he was shaking from the cold almost in time with his phones vibrations. He sighed happily when he saw Sherlock's name. Immediately his fear took over though. What would Sherlock say?

'Won't be back to Baker Street for a while'? 'Moving out'? 'Don't be there when I get back'?

He shook his head slightly, stop thinking that way and just look at the damn text. _Baker Street. Come at once in convenient. - SH_

John smiled and turned around to walk back. He'd apparently looped around in his aimless walking, circling the flat. He was about a twenty-minute walk away though and he knew it would help. Or be his down falling if he let his thoughts take over. Sherlock texting that couldn't have been a coincidence. He'd texted that the day they met, when they were just getting to know each other. Maybe that was it, Sherlock was hinting that he didn't want to know John again. No, that was ridiculous. No negative thoughts. At least not until Sherlock says, ' _John, this is not what I want from you. You are a colleague_ ' or John told Sherlock his mental speech of being able to hide his feelings. He almost believed that he could. 

His phone buzzed again. _If inconvenient, come anyway_. Following moments later, and John was expecting it, _Could be dangerous_.


	8. Chapter 8

Flare for the dramatic. People always said that about him. Sitting in the dark, playing his violin absently, waiting for John, maybe it was true. He could hear the moment John’s hand grasped the doorhandle downstairs and Sherlock mentally tracked John’s walk up the stairs to their flat. The way he was walking told Sherlock that John wasn’t angry. He would have heard that in Johns step, the man wasn’t very good at hiding his emotions. Sherlock had prepared for anger, teacups set up and kettle boiled.

He'd even thought about doing some spot cleaning while he waited for John to get back to the flat. Of course, that was before he realised that he and John had two very different definitions of the term _spot cleaning_. To John, it was actually cleaning and just moving the few out of place objects back to their designated area. To Sherlock, it was pushing things under Johns chair, or hiding things under pillows or blankets, or securing loose pieces of paper to the wall or mantel with a knife.

When John opened the door, Sherlock knew John couldn’t see him. John would only be able to hear the violin until his eyes adjusted. Sherlock knew John, knew the doctor would let his eyes settle in the darkness before he reached for the light switch. Sherlock stopped playing his violin.

“Sherlock?”

“John. Kettle’s just boiled.”

“Ah, excellent.” It was more of a immediate response than John actually being pleased. His eyes had adjusted by now and he reached to turn on the light switch, just like Sherlock knew he would. 

“No," Sherlock said quickly. "Don’t turn on the light.”

John sighed. “How am I supposed to make tea in the dark?”

“I like the dark sometimes. It helps me think. Helps me manage.”

“Manage what exactly?” John walked cautiously in the dark to find his chair. He walked cautiously but Sherlock knew John could find his way there easily. Army training combined with a very fluent knowledge of the flat meant no stubbed toes. 

“Manage what I’m about to say.”

John sat down - fell down, more accurately - into his chair and breathed in deeply. "Sherlock. About that...."

"John, I -"

John cut him off and spoke quickly. "No, it's okay. I understand why you did... _that_. It was - I should apologize."

"Apologize?" This wasn't going how Sherlock planned. How he thought it would. Sherlock was the one that needed to explain. Explain about his mistake and how Mycroft had led him to believe something so unfathomable. That John actually could have feelings for him was ridiculous. He wanted to explain to John, his only friend, that he, for once and the only time he will admit it, was wrong. John was a soldier, he may have experimented in University but as he said, there was a vast gap between experimenting in your youth and being in love with your flatmate. It was stupid of him to think it could be possible. Surely John could see that. It was more likely, however, that Sherlock would explain that to John and he would leave. His throat tightened at the prospect of John leaving. 

"Uh, yes. I mean, obviously, you've," John paused to clear his throat and gesture with his hand between Sherlock and himself, "noticed."

" _Noticed?_ "

"And what you offered to do, the - the _date_ , that was, erm, good but. But you don't need to. If it's about rent or finding a new flatmate, it doesn't have to change."

Sherlock stared at John's dark outline. The darkness wasn't helping him right now. He needed the light, he needed to see John's face. He needed to understand. He didn't understand. "I don't understand."

John blew out a breathe. "You don't understand. Right. Well, that's a first - I just mean, me, _how I feel_ , it doesn't have to change anything." Sherlock processed what had been said in his mind but he still didn't understand. _John's feelings_? So he did...? Mycroft wasn't wrong...?

Sherlock moved across the room, closing the distance between John and himself quickly, practically jumping to lean in front of John's chair to look at his face. He was inches away from Johns face and he could tell the former soldier was taken aback. Good, he could tell, he could see John. He could read John in the darkness this close. "Say that again."

"Sherlock, what? I said, uh, we," John scrunched up his eyebrows trying to remember the exact words he used. So he'd been rambling without paying attention, trying to get the words out. Good, Sherlock thought. He could read John. Rambling meant more likelihood of the truth. "I said, it doesn't have to change anything. I, um, mean it, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I understand if you want me to leave, I guess but I mean it, it doesn't have to change."

Sherlock burst inside. He'd never quite felt an emotion like it. And it made him want to do one thing about it. He'd never really done it much and felt the need to do it a lot less than the already limited times he'd done it personally.

Sherlock leant forward and kissed John Watson. 

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfiction so I have very large doubts about my writing and tensing and EVERYTHING. Wrote this as drabble that turned into more in hopes that someone somewhere might actually read it and give me some tips of my writing?
> 
> Also on Fanfiction net but uploading here now too. 
> 
> Please tell me what you think!


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